


Bat on a Hot Tin Roof

by Cryptoad



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Batfamily Feels, Bruce Wayne isn't perfect, But he's trying, Canonical Character Death, Family, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, batfam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 13:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17488529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cryptoad/pseuds/Cryptoad
Summary: ““Are you OK, B?” Jason asks, looking alarmed.For a moment Bruce can’t reply. The word is repeating itself over and over in his head.Dad, dad, dad.”5 times the Robins called Bruce dad and one time Bruce said it.





	Bat on a Hot Tin Roof

**Author's Note:**

> I titled it that purely because of the Big Daddy character.
> 
> Most of the worst tags are mainly for Stephanie's section as it deals with the aftermath of her torture. It isn't super graphic but if you are worried, feel free to skip that section. :)

Dick screams it at him during an argument. _The_ argument to be exact. Sharp. Angry. Wielded like a weapon. It’s not like Dick hasn’t hurled the word at him before - Bruce has heard plenty of _you’re not my dad_ , particularly when Dick was young and hurting and any acknowledgment of their bond seemed like a slap in the face of his _real_ father.

Bruce has never heard it like this before.

They’re in each other’s faces, so close that they don’t need to shout. They’re shouting anyway. Dick’s face is red, Bruce can see a vein bulging in his forehead, and he’s sure that his is no better.

Later, when he has a few more Robins and far more mistakes under his belt, Bruce will wonder, despairingly, if he could have prevented the argument - if there was any way that he could have balanced Dick’s safety with his independence. Perhaps if Bruce had been more of a father, Robin wouldn’t have been the only thing tying Dick to him. Perhaps he would have stayed, even when Bruce stripped him of his cape.

But Bruce is neither a time traveller nor a mind reader and he’ll never truly know.

And here, in the present, Bruce doesn’t much care to know either. All he can think is that Dick is wrong and Bruce is right, and maybe if he just yells loud enough the message will get through his ward’s thick skull.

“How can you take it away from me?” Dick asks, pleads. “We’re partners!”

“Not anymore,” Bruce snarls. It’s vicious. He’s hurting Dick and he knows that he shouldn’t, but he can’t stop the words from coming, spewing out of his mouth like bile. Splattering all over himself and his ward and burning away anything they might have salvaged.

Dick jerks, as if the words are a physical blow. As if Bruce had hit him. For a moment he simply stares at Bruce in wounded silence, jaw working, eyes wide but curiously dry. If he were a better person, maybe Bruce would be able to tell what that expression meant. But he’s not. Bruce has no idea what he’s thinking. What words he’s trying to keep safely between his teeth. 

“If that’s how you feel.” Dick’s voice is tight, strained.

“Dick-” Bruce’s anger is fading now, and a sort of helpless despair is rushing in to take its place. “That isn’t what I meant-”

But Dick’s anger doesn’t seem to have faded at all. When he interrupts Bruce there’s no longer hurt in his eyes, or on his face, only steely fury. The expression looks wrong on a face so young - looks wrong on _Dick’s_ face - and for a moment Bruce recoils beneath the heat of it.

“I know what you meant,” Dick says in a voice oddly devoid of emotion.

And this wasn’t how this was supposed to go. It’s all sliding out of Bruce’s control so quickly that he isn’t even sure how it happened. He flounders. Grasps for some semblance of authority. Wishes, childishly, that Alfred would appear and somehow make all of this OK again, would calm Dick down and make him see sense.

“Dick, please,” Bruce tries, but Dick cuts him off again.

“I don’t want to hear it.” Voice still strangely flat. “I thought we were partners.”

Bruce’s chest feels painfully tight. He wants to explain, wants to yell again, wants to beg for forgiveness, but the words can’t make it past the obstruction, can’t seem to force themselves up his throat. Dick’s eyes flicker, as if searching for something in Bruce’s face. Whatever he’s looking for he doesn’t seem to find. His whole face tightens, for a moment as emotionless as his voice, before crumpling.

“I thought you were my dad.”

Dick’s voice breaks as he says it, tears welling up in those bright blue eyes. 

Bruce feels as though he’s been punched. A blow right to his chest. The physical sensation surprises him almost as much as the words, and for a moment he grips at the material of his shirt, mouth open and working soundlessly. It’s not as though he’s never thought of Dick as his son before - of course he has - but hearing the word aloud is something entirely different.

“Of course Dick-“ Bruce gasps, floundering. “Of course-“ 

And yet, had he ever been? Partner? Yes. Mentor? Of course. Dad? If Bruce had been a real father he would never have let Dick don the costume in the first place. Would have kept him safe. There are healthier ways to deal with emotions, Bruce knows, even if that’s not the way that Bruce deals with them. 

But Bruce hadn’t wanted a son. Not when he had taken Dick in, not really. He had wanted someone to fight by his side, to fill the hole in his life that he hadn’t even realised existed until he had first laid eyes on Dick in those awful, aching moments after his parents had fallen to their deaths.

He had ended up with a son of course. Without his knowledge or intent. Because that was what Dick had needed. It was what Bruce had needed too - still needs. Only, now he’s lost it.

Dick’s face is colder than Bruce has ever seen it as he watches him stutter and struggle. It feels, strangely, as if with that single word their positions have reversed. As if Dick is the emotionless Dark Knight and Bruce his hapless sidekick.

“Don’t follow me,” Dick says into the conspicuous silence. And Bruce should stop him. Should have the magic words that will undo the damage he’s done.

He doesn’t.

 

***

 

Jason doesn’t call him dad. Not during arguments. Not during those (increasingly) rare moments of affection. Not to his face or to anyone else as far as Bruce’s limited knowledge extends. If he had called for his dad during his final moments - as Joker had snidely told him before Bruce had beaten him half to death - no one but the clown or his mother had been around to hear it.

Bruce never expects it. Jason may legally be his son but Bruce understands families and complicated relationships. By the time Bruce and Jason meet, the kid is already mostly independent, already has his own relationship with the word, both negative and positive.

Even Dick had never really used the word, and Bruce knows that, despite everything, he will always have an easier relationship, a more paternal relationship, with his first Robin.

So when, many years and many mistakes after that first fateful meeting, the word slips out as easily as if Jason has always said it, Bruce doesn’t even realise at first.

Jason had been injured on patrol the night before and Tim had half-carried, half-dragged his semi-conscious brother back to the mansion. That’s the only reason Jason is here. The kid doesn’t exactly do social visits.

But he _is_ here and, despite everything between them, that fact still sends a little thrill of satisfaction through Bruce. All of them together in the mansion, crowded around the breakfast table like something out of the Brady bunch. If the Brady bunch had included a lot more swearing and the occasional death threat.

In all honesty, Bruce isn’t even paying Jason much attention. He’s unusually quiet, slumped in the chair between Bruce and Dick, picking half-heartedly at Alfred’s breakfast. He’s clearly feeling his wounds from the night before and he’s prickly about being back in the manor so Bruce is mostly trying not to antagonise him. The others, for once, seem to be doing the same, picking fights with each other and leaving Jason mostly alone.

Then Jason stretches for one of the plates, reaching awkwardly with his left arm seeing as his right is now bound up uselessly against his chest. Something must pull wrongly because his face contracts with pain and he snatches his arm back as if burned, cradling his stomach like his guts might fall out.

Bruce winces with sympathy. No one else seems to have noticed - or Bruce suspects they have but are being polite. For once. The plate is sitting by Bruce’s right hand, easily within reach, but Jason would never ask for Bruce’s help, not even for something so small, _especially_ for something so small.

Bruce slides the plate towards him anyway. Because Jason is hurting and Bruce can be petty but he isn’t _that_ petty. For a moment Jason just eyes it suspiciously, then he pulls it carefully towards himself with his free hand.

Then, offhandedly, he says: “Thanks dad.”

At first Bruce doesn’t even notice. Everyone else at the table is being so loud, it almost drowns the words out. He hums, nods, turns back to his own plate. Freezes.

The noise around the table stops abruptly. As if the others have just registered what Jason said as well. Something hot and painful burns into life in Bruce’s chest.

“Dad?” Damian sneers. 

Jason doesn’t even look up. Perhaps he doesn’t realise that Damian is speaking to him. Perhaps he doesn’t even realise what he said.

“Dami,” Dick snaps.

“What? Todd just called father, _dad_.”

That gets Jason’s attention. His head comes up, sharp, to glare at his youngest brother. The bruises on his face have come into full bloom, vibrant purple and blue, and they make his expression look even more sinister.

Damian doesn’t seem particularly bothered, snarling right back.

“No I didn’t.”

“Tt-“

“Dami, shut up.” Dick practically shouts.

“But he did-“

“No I didn’t!”

Bruce should put a stop to the argument now, before it spirals into something completely out of his control. But he can’t get the words out. The burning in his chest is blazing at the base of his throat. Eating up all the oxygen. He chokes.

Almost as one, the boys turn towards him, expressions of surprise and concern on their faces. Bruce is glad they’ve stopped fighting but he could do without the weight of their sudden attention.

“Are you OK, B?” Jason asks, looking alarmed.

For a moment Bruce can’t reply. The word is repeating itself over and over in his head. 

_Dad, dad, dad._

Jason hasn’t regarded Bruce with any sort of affection since he was small. The force of Bruce’s emotional response to that one little word has taken him utterly by surprise. Knocked the breath right out of him.

“I’m fine,” his voice, embarrassingly, cracks. Even Damian looks worried. “I’m fine _son_.”

Jason rolls his eyes so hard Bruce is surprised they don’t pop right out of his head.

 

***

 

Tim still has a father when he first joins Bruce. There is no awkward fumbling as with Dick, no struggle to find his place, as with Jason. Tim is Robin. Batman’s partner. Bruce’s mentee. But he’s no son - not even a ward. And he has a home to go to, even if it’s often alone.

Things get a bit more complicated after Tim’s parents die. Bruce is still no father, but Tim joins their home. And he fits there. Finds his rhythm. It’s not perfect - but when is it ever?

Tim doesn’t call Bruce dad. Bruce would be very surprised if he did. At first he’s strangely formal, polite, as if Bruce is his boss and Tim is some underpaid, under-appreciated employee. He starts to relax after a while. Eventually he starts to regard Bruce with about as much formality and respect as the rest of his children - which is to say not very much at all. But he’s never Bruce’s son exactly.

Sometimes Bruce is certain that Tim stays alive off of coffee and nervous energy alone. There always seem to be dark circles under the kid’s eyes. He always seems just a little bit too pale. If Bruce is awake then so is Tim - he’s not sure if he’s actually ever seen the kid sleep. But Bruce isn’t his dad. So his stern lectures and exasperated pleading don’t have much effect at all. Bruce isn’t sure if they would regardless of who gave them to him.

So it isn’t a surprise, really, to find Tim curled up like a cat in the batcomputer chair, fast asleep. Bruce takes a moment to appreciate the fact that this might be the first time he’s actually seen the kid’s eyes closed. Tim looks peaceful in his sleep, all the stress lines smoothed out, but the position doesn’t look particularly comfortable, sharp knees drawn up to his chest, head lolling awkwardly against his shoulders, the arm rest of the chair digging in to his skinny ribs. Looking down at him like this, Bruce feels an odd surge of affection. Something warm and bright in his stomach. Gently, trying not to wake him, Bruce runs a hand through the kid’s dark hair.

The computer is still on. Bruce takes a quick glance at the screen - nothing too important on there - certainly not important enough to stay up all night for. There’s a half-cooled coffee mug sitting on the desk. Beside it, the remains of a protein bar. There are crumbs everywhere.

Bruce sighs. One of these days he really needs to have a talk with TIm. Surviving on coffee and protein bars and one or two hours of sleep at night is not healthy. If it carries on like this its going to start affecting his performance as Robin. And, OK, Bruce isn’t exactly the best model of a healthy lifestyle - he still remembers those dark days after Jason...after Jason… when he had refused to leave the house, refused to sleep or eat, when Alfred had practically pulled his hair out in frustration - but he knows, objectively, what healthy is. It isn’t this. But Tim is young, he’ll learn. It’s probably too late for Bruce now.

He doesn’t want to wake Tim up - not when he’s sleeping so peacefully - but he doesn’t particularly want him to spend the night here. The batcave is cold and the chair isn’t exactly the most comfortable. And if he wakes up here in the night, there’s too much of a risk that Tim will just finish off the cold coffee and keep working.

So Bruce lifts him, carefully, out of the chair.

Tim is light in Bruce’s arms. There aren’t many occasions when Bruce has had to carry any of the boys. Almost all of them are negative. They had all been young when they had come to Bruce, but not so young that they needed to be carried around. The only reason for Bruce to lift them, usually, is if they’ve been incapacitated. Badly injured. The action stirs up some bad memories from the depths of Bruce’s mind, where he usually keeps them buried. Cradling Dick’s tiny body after Harvey had beaten him half-to-death with that baseball bat. Lifting Jason - so small, so _small_ from the rubble of that ruined warehouse.

No.

He forces the memories back down where they belong. Plasters his barriers carefully back into place. Tim isn’t injured - he’s sleeping.

There are happier memories. Carrying Dick up to bed after his first patrol, when the excitement had been too much for him, and he had slumped, exhausted, as soon as they had gotten back to the cave. Lifting Jason up so that he could reach one of the higher shelves in the library, desperate to read anything he could get his hands on. Bruce allows himself a little smile as he starts up the stairs.

Tim doesn’t stir. Not when they emerge through the entranceway into the considerably warmer house. Not as Bruce tramps carefully up the stairs towards Tim’s room. Not when Bruce sets him carefully on the bed. Bruce is glad - he needs all the sleep he can get, clearly.

Carefully, Bruce unlaces the kids boots and slides them off. Sets them neatly at the foot of the bed. He untucks the blanket, lays it out across Tim’s prone form, then runs his hand through the kid’s hair again.

“Goodnight, Timbo,” he says, softly, into the darkness.

Tim shifts, blinks tired eyes open. For a moment he just regards Bruce sleepily, then he turns on his side, tugging the blanket up to his chin as he does so, and sighs.

“Goodnight dad.”

That rush of affection washes over Bruce again. Warm and soft and light in his chest. He switches off the lamp and in the darkness can’t help mouthing the word to himself. ‘Dad’. It feels good. Tim is a good kid.

Bruce allows himself another smile.

 

***

 

Stephanie’s father is, understandably, a bit of a sore spot. Stephanie herself is a bit of a sore spot. Bruce is never quite sure how to handle her. She’s different, in so many ways, from all of the boys who came before her, and Bruce feels a bit lost at sea. Stranded in a little row boat as the tempest that is Stephanie sweeps in and completely blows him away, overturns him. Capsized.

Bruce will never expect her to call him dad. He knows he’s certainly not worthy of that title. Doesn’t want it either. He also knows that he’s cruel to her, in his own cold, emotionless way. That he makes mistake after mistake after _mistake_. Some that he will never be able to fix.

Stephanie isn’t a bad kid. Bruce is a bad parent, maybe not worse than her real father, but certainly no suitable substitute. He doesn’t want the responsibility. Not anymore than he had wanted a son with Dick or Jason or TIm. He doesn’t want a daughter. 

That doesn’t mean he wants to lose her.

Reckless. That was always Stephanie’s problem. She’s too reckless. Always has a point to prove. It’s partly Bruce’s fault (entirely Bruce’s fault) and he knows that. He has encouraged her. Discouraged her. Ruined her chances with the birds of prey, made her Robin, taken it away. Like he said - mistake after mistake after mistake.

He takes her hand. It’s wrapped in so many bandages, stuck through with tubes and wires, and he knows that underneath it’s even worse. Broken fingers. Ruined fingernails. He holds it gently, terrified of hurting her, even though she’s on so many painkillers that she probably doesn’t even know where she is. Probably doesn’t even recognise Bruce.

Bruce can’t look at her face. If he were stronger, better, he would. He would stare at her face until his vision faded, until every cut and burn and bruise was stamped into his mind, so that he would never forget what it looked like, would never forget what his mistakes could cause. You would think after everything - after Jason -

But no. Bruce is not strong. Not now. Not for this. His eyes only reach as far as her chest. The thick bandages hidden beneath the blanket. The stuttering, barely-there rise and fall of her shattered ribs.

Her own eyes are on him, he knows. He can feel them. Or the one that isn’t swollen shut at least. Burning. Heavy. He feels small and frail beneath the weight of them. As if Bruce is the one dying on the bed and Stephanie is his silent condemnor.

He isn’t sure if she can talk. There aren’t many teeth left in her mouth. Streaks of blood still cracking at the corners. Flaking off her torn-up lips.

She tries. Slurs something that might be his name. “Bbbbbrrrr-”

Bruce doesn’t know how to respond. Doesn’t want to. He keeps his eyes resolutely on the bandaged mess in his hands.

“Bru-, pleassse.”

He does look up at that. Steels himself against the shock of her appearance. And yet, the sight still takes his breath away. 

“It’s OK, Steph,” he thinks he manages through his clogged-up throat. His hand raises automatically, as if to stroke through her hair, across her cheek, hesitates. He isn’t sure if he can touch her without hurting her.

There are tears in her non-ruined eye. It hurts Bruce’s heart to see them, a thick iron band around his chest. Heat prickles in his own in response.

“I’m here, it’s OK, you’re safe.” Then, as if he can’t stop the words, “I’m sorry. _God_ Steph, I’m so sorry.”

The tears spill over, trickle down her cheek, over the dark purple bruises, until they reach the gauze taped to her jaw. Bruce feels one trail down his own skin and is, for a moment, surprised. When was the last time Bruce had cried? It feels appropriate to do so now, and yet, Bruce can’t stamp down the embarrassment.

“‘Sss ‘k,” Steph slurs. Her eyelid flutters. Bruce’s stomach lurches but the heart rate monitor is beeping steadily and when her eye opens again it focuses with disturbing clarity on Bruce.

“Dad,” she says, clearer than anything else. For a moment Bruce wonders if maybe she’s confused. If maybe she thinks her father is in the room with her. He almost glances around. “Dad, it’s OK.”

Bruce’s heart clenches so painfully that for a moment he is afraid that it’s stopped. It feels as though suddenly all the air is gone from the room. As if he’s on the top of some very tall mountain and the air is too thin to breathe.

It’s not. It’s not OK.

He does touch her face then. Rests his hand on her cheek, as gently as he can, carefully avoiding the worst of the bruises. Her single eye flutters closed and she tips her head into him, even though pressing into his palm must hurt her. Tears are sliding down both their cheeks now. Bruce can’t stop them. Can’t stop any of this.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say. Over and over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” And Stephanie whimpers and says, “it’s OK dad, it’s OK.”

Only it’s never going to be OK again.

 

***

 

Damian calls him father from the very beginning. Never dad. Damian is Bruce’s only true child, genetically, but that doesn’t mean that their relationship is perfect. Talia and the al Ghul’s and the League of Assassins have seen to that. They’ve produced an angry, troubled young boy.

Bruce is used to angry and troubled. Used to assassins, and the influence of evil people. That doesn’t mean he knows how to handle it.

Sometimes, Bruce thinks that Dick is better at handling Damian than he is. In fact, most of the time he does. Dick has an easy way about him. Something charming, something loveable - something he definitely hadn’t picked up from Bruce. And Damian loves him almost immediately. 

That isn’t to say that he doesn’t love Bruce. Bruce is confident that he does, in his own unique way. But, despite everything, Damian only ever calls him father.

Bruce loves Damian too, of course, but he certainly hadn’t wanted another son. Definitely not the way that Damian had been foisted upon him. When Talia had dropped their angry, violent, adolescent son in Bruce’s lap he had been...disappointed is the wrong word to use, although he had been disappointed - with Talia, with Damian’s bloodthirstiness and need to kill. Tired. Perhaps tired is better. Bruce has made so many mistakes, has so many relationships that he has ruined, that he still needs to try and fix. Adding another child on top of that was almost too much.

Still, Bruce had made it work, mostly. Especially with Dick’s help.

He still doesn’t expect Damian to call him dad though, father is enough.

Still, it’s strangely gratifying, to hear him call Talia _mother_.

“You need to come with me Damian,” Talia says, voice as soft and cool as it ever is. She isn’t completely devoid of emotion, Bruce knows, but she is good at pretending she is. “Leaving you with him was a mistake. You must come back to us now.”

Damian is a little way away from Bruce, a small, dark spot in the hazy grey of the night. He’s about an equal distance away from Talia. Close enough that he would only need to take a few steps to reach her outstretched hand. Far enough away that he could be back within the safety of Bruce’s cloak almost as quickly. His sword is gripped tightly in both hands. Even in the darkness, Bruce can see the tension in his son’s thin shoulders.

“Talia,” Bruce says, to save Damian from answering - maybe so he doesn’t have to hear the answer. “You should leave now. Alone.”

Damian glances back at him and Bruce’s stomach lurches at the lost expression on his face.

“Damian your place-”

“Damian’s place is here!” Bruce interrupts. He feels strangely desperate. Out of control. Damian seems suddenly very far away. “With his family. His real family.”

Talia makes a cold noise of contempt.

“How...sentimental.”

Bruce shifts. Squares his shoulders. It’s not often he gets accused of being sentimental.

Damian turns back to Talia and Bruce’s heart sinks.

“Mother,” Damian starts, as cool and emotionless as Talia. “I am not going to come with you. This is my place now - with father.”

Bruce is unendingly gratified at that.

Later, once Bruce has tucked Damian safely into bed where he belongs, the kid blinks up at him and says, “I would never have gone with her.” Then, when Bruce just strokes the hair back from his face without replying: “You know that, right dad?”

Bruce smiles, soft, and leans down to press a kiss against his youngest son’s forehead. He isn’t usually so free with his affection, but seeing Damian standing there, alone on the rooftop, so close to leaving with his mother and never coming back, has shaken something free in Bruce’s chest.

“Of course son, of course I know that.” 

Damian just squints at him with tired eyes so Bruce adds, “You know I’d never let her take you either. Not if you didn’t want to go.”

Maybe, in the future, there will be a day when Damian decides that he does want to rejoin his mother, rejoin the league. Bruce can’t say he won’t try to stop him, but he can’t exactly promise that he will either. Thankfully it’s not this day. Bruce has another chance to tuck his son in to bed, to wish him a goodnight and kiss him on the forehead.

Damian smiles up at him, face soft and innocent. Bruce knows that Damian isn’t innocent. That even so young, he has blood on his hands. But he can’t help but smile back. Because Damian is his son. Bruce is his dad. And that’s what’s important.

“'ana 'ahbak ya 'abi,” Damian murmurs, already drifting off to sleep.

Bruce tugs the blanket up under Damian’s chin, then reaches over to turn of the bedside light.

“I love you too kiddo.”

 

***

 

Bruce has a lot of anniversaries now: Jason, Stephanie, Damian. All terrible, awful, exhausting. All his own mistakes. Things that he’ll never be able to change, or fix. His children are, somehow, miraculously, alive again, but that doesn’t change the fact that he mourns them on those days. That he grieves as strongly as he did the day they each died. He’ll never get what he once had back. 

The anniversary of his parents’ death is not the hardest that he has to deal with. But it still hurts. Even after all this time. Even after everything.

He visits their graves mostly alone. Dick always offers, every time, to go with him, and Bruce, every time, says no. He had taken Damian once, when he was small, when he had wanted to teach him about the grandparents he would never get to know. He had never taken him again. His children all have their own problems to think about - their own grief and heartbreak. They hardly need Bruce’s on top of that.

But he’s never been completely alone. Alfred comes with him. Every time. And every time he stands a respectable distance away, quiet but unemotional - Alfred had liked both Thomas and Martha, had been a good servant to them, but he had never _loved_ them - and then, once they’ve returned to the manor, he settles Bruce in the comfiest armchair with a camomile tea and some homemade snickerdoodles. Just like Martha used to make.

It’s no different this year.

The manor is empty when they return. Damian is with Dick in Bludhaven. Tim is on a mission with the Titans. Stephanie and Jason mostly do their own things these days. Bruce tries not to pry.

It’s almost too quiet. It reminds Bruce too sharply of those first few awful days after his parents’ deaths, when the manor had seemed huge and empty and full of darkness. Or that terrible year after Jason, when the rooms had seemed even emptier, as if they had been waiting for his son’s return.

Bruce shudders. Alfred lays a gentle hand on his back and guides him towards the armchair - the comfy one beneath the grandfather clock, that Dick had used to like to jump off of, that Jason had used to curl up in to read, that Tim had used to fall asleep in late in the night.

“I’ll get some tea, Master Bruce,” Alfred says, in that quiet competent voice of his.

Bruce doesn’t reply, just sinks back into the cushions and lets his eyes slide shut. How would they feel, he wonders, his parents - if they could see him now? Disappointed, he imagines. Then tries to stop imagining. Today is hard enough without dwelling on all of his mistakes.

He opens his eyes again when Alfred returns, a steaming tray of tea in one hand, a plate of cookies in the other. The butler sets them down carefully, then straightens, makes to leave the room and let Bruce stew in his own thoughts as usual.

“Wait,” Bruce says, before he can go. “Why don’t you sit down Alfred, have some tea with me.”

There’s only one cup on the tray but Alfred doesn’t mention that. He perches obligingly on the slightly-less comfortable armchair opposite and takes a cookie. Bruce takes his own. Neither of them eat them.

“I want,” a pause, a shaky breath, “I want to thank you Alfred.” If Alfred is surprised, he doesn’t show it. “I know I don’t - I don’t tell you that enough, but I am grateful. For everything.”

Bruce will never be able to express how much Alfred has done for him. Loved him, raised him entirely alone once Bruce’s parents were no longer around. He’s humoured every one of Bruce’s schemes and plans and bad ideas. Loved everyone of Bruce’s children as if they were his own. Literally saved Bruce’s life after Jason, after Stephanie, after Damian.

Tears prickle at the back of Bruce’s eyes. To his utter surprise, there’s a wet gleam in Alfred’s, but when the Butler speaks his voice is as steady as ever.

“I assure you Master Bruce, there is no need.”

“No Alfred,” and suddenly it seems vitally important that he says it. “You’ve been - you’ve been the best.” He has to swallow thickly. “You’ve been the best dad I could have hoped for.”

Alfred stands, abruptly, and Bruce startles, dropping his cookie onto the thick rug. At least the tea is safe. Alfred steps closer and Bruce rises to meet him. The hug is warm, and solid, much like Alfred himself, and Bruce feels strangely small, as if he’s 5 years old again and sneaking into his father’s room after a nightmare. Only it isn’t Thomas Wayne, it’s Alfred.

The older man smells of cookies and fresh, clean laundry, and Bruce buries his face in the soft cotton covering Alfred’s shoulder.

“Thank you Bruce,” Alfred says, so quietly that Bruce isn’t entirely sure he hears it. “Thank you...son.”

**Author's Note:**

> Do I have a bit of an obsession with Bruce's kids calling him dad? Yes. 
> 
> “'ana 'ahbak ya 'abi,” means "I love you dad" in Arabic, according to google translate.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! :)


End file.
